Nine years ago, on September 11 2001, I was a six year old girl living in a small army community in rural Alberta, Canada.
At that time, I had no idea what was going on anywhere beyond the end of my street, let alone in another country. I didn't watch the news, I was far too busy helping toilet train my best friend's puppy or playing tag on the lawn with the other kids on my street. I was young, naive and the worst thing on my mind was trying to learn those fifteen words for my spelling test next week. My world was small, my outlook was sunny and I was happy.
I didn't know about extremism. I didn't know about the World Trade Centre being destroyed. I didn't know about the thousands of people who died.
Now, nine years and three days later, I sat with my friend in her room and we hugged each other and cried. We cried for all the people who were killed, we cried for all the people they left behind, we cried for every reason we could think of.
But, now I think about it, we cried for more than that. We cried for the terrible part of the human soul that causes these disasters. We cried for the part of us that knows the pain that such a terrible loss can bring, such as that felt by the people who never saw their loved ones again. And we cried for our future. For the fear that we would grow up in a world where this could happen again.
We cried for fear that, one day, it would be us who were left to cry for our dead.